Receivers
by TheQuiltedFox
Summary: A series of phone calls and encounters beginning in December, 1968. Major spoilers for Season 7a. Peggy Olson, Don Draper, Ted Chaough, Stan Rizzo.
1. Chapter 1 - December 6, 1968

A/N This has been my first attempt at fan fiction... so I'd love to know what you think! I love reading your comments!

**Chapter summary: Cold fries and cold conversation.**

* * *

**Friday, December 6, 1968**

'Peggy?' He'd recognise her profile anywhere, even if it is darting down the stairs of the subway.

She stops, but doesn't turn.

'_Peggy_... ' Not so much a question this time, more of a plea. _Stop. Please._

She turns to face him, not a bit of sympathy in those sharp blue eyes.

'Don.' Her voice too, is sharp. It's an accusation.

He tries to think of something nice to say, or failing that, something clever. Instead, 'Would you come up here.' He shuts his eyes for a moment, chastising himself. What was that? It's the same tone he would use on the secretaries.

But she does it, she's at the top step, glaring at him as commuters push past her. Even when angry, she's obedient. Jesus, _obedient_? Those last few drinks at the dive bar were probably a mistake. It's what happens when he needs to escape Madison Avenue... and any of the bars close by... he ends up a few blocks away from where he feels confident, and runs into the one woman who could say no to him, and stick to that decision.

* * *

They end up in some diner with red upholstery on the booth seats. It's busy and rowdy with an after-work crowd. Everyone looks like they're ready to start the weekend early. Peggy, however, looks exhausted.

Dawn's already phoned to say that Lou Avery's taken over as Head of Creative. His name was on the office door the day after Don was... whatever he was... _Given some time off_... He knew what that translated as.

A young waitress with a doughy face comes over to take their order. Peggy hesitates, turning the plastic menu over a couple of times. Don catches her eye and raises an eyebrow.

'You going to order?'

'You're the one who wanted come in here. You order.' She's still being sharp with him.

'Fine.' He glances at the menu, looking for the simplest option, 'Bowl of fries.'

The waitress doesn't bother to write it down. 'Drinks?' she asks, tacking on a false smile at the end.

'No.'

Peggy clears her throat.

'You want something?'

'No.'

But of course, he's meant to ask first, isn't he.

He looks up at the waitress, and lets out a dismissive huff, 'That's all.'

She pivots on her low heel and stomps off.

'You think she'd be grateful, one less table to worry about.' Don adjusts his coat, rearranging the tails so they don't crease under his weight. Then he unwinds his scarf, folding it over slowly and tossing it down next to him on the seat.

Peggy, he notices, has made no effort to relax or get comfortable. She's still wearing her hat.

She catches him observing her. _Well? _her look seems to say.

'Well... ' he starts, but is interrupted by the bowl of fries that's placed down rather unceremoniously between them.

'You should eat something,' there's almost a touch of genuine care in her voice.

He considers refusing, just out of spite, but his liquid lunch— and breakfast— slosh around in his stomach.

He keeps his eyes on her as he takes a handful and pops them in his mouth one by one. She doesn't shy away, just stares right back. There's a furrow in her brow that makes him think she's trying to ask and answer a lot of questions non-verbally. When he finishes the handful, he brushes the remaining salt and oil from his hands.

'So, _how's Lou_?'

'Different.' Peggy doesn't even take a second to consider her answer. What was he hoping to hear; _when will you be back? _Perhaps a hint of pleading in her tone. But no, just _different._

'Different. Right.' He takes another fry. 'I thought maybe... They said Ted would manage your work from the LA office.'

'Ted can't manage anything.'

He can't help it; the venom in her voice makes him grin.

Peggy notices and shakes her head. 'I can't forgive what you did— I can understand it, but I can't forgive it.' She looks down at her hands resting in her lap, 'He was a good man.' She's doing that thing; where she locks her jaw and her head shakes like there's something she's itching to let out.

'_Really?'_

'He was.'

Past tense. Interesting. Maybe Chaough had the right idea, maybe 3000 miles is the perfect amount of distance to put between your problems. But Megan's in California and SC&P's in New York... where's he supposed to go.

'When will you be back?' She doesn't say it like he wants her to.

'I don't know. It's "indefinite"... Soon, I guess... They'd say so it it weren't...'

Would they though? With the shareholders track record over the past few years; Lucky Strike, Jaguar, Lane, Joan. The right hand never knew when the left was picking its own pocket.

'Indefinite?' Peggy lets out a low whistle. 'That's a long time to go without work... especially when you're used to a certain lifestyle— '

'It's full pay.'

She gives a short laugh, '_That's what the money's for_,' she says it quietly, but it hits him all right.

He shifts in his seat; time to change the conversation. 'How was your Thanksgiving?' His attempt at lightness passes for genuine, even to his own ears.

Peggy tilts her head to the side, her brow furrowing for a moment, then she smiles. It's a sad smile; a look he's seen on far too many faces far too often lately.

'Fine— ' She cuts herself off and throws her head back for a moment, then, 'Actually, it was... It's never the best time for me, Don... To be honest.'

'Oh.' Her tone surprises him. 'Family?' Jesus, he doesn't know a thing about her outside of the office.

She toys with the idea of eating one of the fries from the bowl that's gone cold between them. She pulls one out from the bundle— it's short and burnt at one end. She lays it down on the plastic-covered table-top.

'It's more of an anniversary...' She begins to nod her head quickly, and looks at him directly. Those eyes are wide. She's trying to say something without actually—

'_Oh._' He's taught himself to forget things too easily. 'How long, I mean, how— '

'Eight. He— he will have just turned eight,' Peggy tries to smile, but it falters, the corners of her mouth twitching. She clears her throat instead, waves a hand vaguely, then brings the same hand up to fiddle idly with the scarf knotted around her neck.

_He_. Don's sure that's new information. When they'd spent her birthday shouting, drinking, and sleeping, he could remember her talking about it. Well, around it. _Playgrounds_. The idea of it— her small voice as she said it— still gets him like a kick in the gut. Then there's another sick feeling... that it would make a great campaign, like Kodak's Carousel. It's nostalgia... a longing for the past. What would the tagline be? How could he assure this audience that everything was okay, _that she was okay..._

Don's honestly never spared a thought for whose it is, but now he knows there's another little boy out there who doesn't know his mother.

He wants to curl up and go to sleep.

* * *

He sees her off at the same subway entrance, unsure if their lunch really achieved anything, but it's a better goodbye than they'd had previously.

'Peggy... '

'Don.' She gives one last parting nod, and then she's gone.

He turns back and starts walking in the opposite direction.

He allows himself a quick thought; how long until they're back on the same path? Then again, had they ever been?

And then the thought's gone, cast off with so many others.

He really needs to lie down.

* * *

Preview of chapter 2: Peggy receives a phone call from the man she hates to love. Peggy/Ted


	2. Chapter 2 - December 17, 1968

**Summary: Peggy receives a call from the man she hates to love.**

* * *

**Tuesday, December 17, 1968**

The two-room office is uncomfortable in its stillness. Pete and the secretary have finished for the day, leaving Ted alone with his thoughts, his yet-to-be-unpacked boxes, and his phone.

* * *

The office is silent. There's only the odd desk lamp lighting a path from the entrance of SC&P to Peggy's office.

It's just gone ten when he calls. She's watching her reflection in the glass of the window; the dark sky as her mirror. The blinds are open, and cold glass is chilling the air. In the building opposite, a whole floor of lights goes out.

Peggy snaps out of her reverie and swings her chair around to face the desk.

Did he know she'd still be in the office? Maybe he did this every night, just hoping she'd pick up.

As she stares at the phone it stops ringing. Still, she waits. Sure enough, after a brief silence, there it is— that loud interruption demanding her attention.

Her hand hovers over the receiver, still undecided.

A sudden wave of anxiety goes through her at the thought of hearing his voice, and also, of not hearing it.

Peggy takes the receiver and holds it close to her ear. She can't say anything yet, just in case...

'I wasn't sure you'd be in still,' he says, his voice low and tired. 'It's late over there.'

She could get angry. She could yell, shout, curse, cry. She could hang up. But instead, all she does is sigh, 'There's a lot to do.'

'I know. I know.' He sounds relieved that there's any reply at all.

Peggy rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck from side to side. It's been a long day. No matter what she says to Lou, no matter how good the work is, it feels like every step is going backward, not forward.

'Peggy?'

'Hmm?'

The chill seeping in from the cold glass behind her gets the back of neck, causing a shiver.

'What's it like?' She's referring to the office. He'll know that by the lightness in her voice. It's one question without any weight to it.

'Bright. It's always so bright, and the sun... It's not New York.'

'You'll go brown.'

There's a beat. Peggy places a hand to the back of her neck, but even that's cold. Everything about her feels icy tonight.

'I can't stand this... ' he says.

'You chose this_, Ted_.'

'I know.' There's a sigh. 'And I feel— '

'Hang on, you got to make the decision— you don't get to _feel_ anything about it." She's almost spitting the words out, and her body wants to shake all over. Feeling things is what's left for her. It's _all_ that's left for her, she thinks.

'Nan's... always there, just... waiting at home, because she knows I'll always go home. There's nowhere else I _can_ go.'

'Go flying.'

Because that seems to be the most obvious solution to any problem... Just fly away.

'There's nowhere to go. I'm already where I need to be, apparently.'

Apparently.

Then something comes to mind. Something warm and lovely and safe from the shadow cast by the merger and Don; their first kiss—

'It's one thing to want something, it's another to need it,' Peggy quotes.

She hears him shift the receiver from one ear to the other.

'That's awfully poetic,' he says.

'Well you said it.'

He nearly lets out a short laugh, 'And you remembered it?'

Yes, because _you_ said it.

Peggy stares at her hand as she reaches out to touch the typewriter. There's a smudge of oil on the ribbon. She makes a mental note to wind the ribbon tomorrow morning, or even just replace it. It's not something she can be bothered with at present.

'I can't do this right now— ' she begins.

He interrupts, his words flowing together as he tries to get them out, 'I shouldn't have called so late, how about tomor— '

'No, I can't talk to you. _At all_.'

'But we are talking, Peggy. This is us... Talking. We're actually doing far better than I thought we would.'

'Have either of us actually _said_ anything?

She waits as he takes a moment.

'_I_ think so.'

'Really. I'm hanging up. I don't want— '

'Please. _Please_ don't say that... '

'I don't want you ringing me. And I don't want to see you— '

'Please... Alright, I won't do this again. I won't call you up like this out of office hours. But I can't promise— '

They've managed the past few weeks with only a couple of Creative conference calls, but she'd had Stan in the office with her. Michael, too, not that he was any kind of support. With Lou's appointment, there really wasn't a reason for there to be any one-on-one calls.

'This conversation's gone in a circle.'

'Peggy... '

'Goodnight,' she says, with an air of finality...

But then she hesitates, and it's just long enough to hear his low, resigned tone...

'There's nothing here for me.'

The receiver lands on the hook with a crash.

* * *

Preview of chapter 3: Liquor runs out quick on Christmas Eve. Peggy/Stan


	3. Chapter 3 - December 24, 1968

**Summary: Liquor runs out quick on Christmas Eve.**

* * *

**Tuesday, December 24, 1968**

At a quarter to nine, the phone rings.

Peggy tosses the research files onto the coffee table and lunges across her couch for the phone. She stays in that awkward position, just in case it's him again, and she needs to hang up quickly.

'Hello?'

There's no response.

'_Hello?' _She sighs, 'Listen, T— '

A low chuckle cuts her off. 'And now I know you don't have plans for Christmas Eve.'

'Stan...'

'Who else would you expect?' Then, 'Shit, I didn't mean...'

Of course he knows.

'It's fine,' she says dismissively.

'It's not.'

There's a silence between them. Peggy stands and tucks the receiver between her ear and shoulder. In one free hand she scoops up the handset and walks over to the kitchen. She grabs the bottle of scotch she opened yesterday, and manages to pick up a tall glass tumbler too. It's not the ideal glass, but it'll do.

'You call me up just for that?' There's no malice in her voice, she knows there's rarely any reason to their late-night calls.

'No...' He draws the word out in a way that leads Peggy to suspect that maybe it _was_ one of the reasons. 'I thought I'd spread some holiday cheer.'

'Urgh,' Peggy sits down on the rug by her couch, resting her back against the armrest. She sets down the phone, bottle and glass, nesting in her little spot by the heater.

'Lighten up, Ebenezer.' Shan snickers at his own joke.

'Shut up,' he'll push her, but she'll push back.

She pours herself a drink, maybe a rather generous drop. She hears Stan take her cue and there's a clink of ice cubes falling into glass, then the pour of something wet. Sounds like another generous serving. Peggy looks towards her fridge. Ice? No, it should be okay. It's still cold in her front room despite the layers of clothing and the heater only a couple meters away.

Ice or no ice, it tastes good as it gets the back of her throat.

She just listens to him moving about in his own space; there's the sound of a chair being pulled back, legs scraping against hardwood floors; the flick of a lamp switch; then a comfortable sigh as he rifles through paper and then through a jar of markers and materials.

'What are you working on?'

Stan clears his throat as he settles in, 'It's just a sketch.'

Peggy finishes her drink, and without a beat, pours another. 'Let me guess, a nude— some girl's draped over your couch.'

'You know me too well,' his voice is smooth, low.

'You should hang up- concentrate on finishing it.' Peggy hears how her voice goes up at the end of her sentence. It's a question, a challenge that she hopes he doesn't accept.

'The drawing or the girl?' he gives a short chuckle.

... 'I should probably— '

'It's the view from my window.'

'Huh? What is?'

'What I'm drawing. It's a cityscape. No girl,' he sighs, '_unfortunately_.'

'Oh.'

'No need to sound so pleased, chief. This winter's been a dry one.' Another long sigh, which turns into a yawn at the end.

'I'm sure you'll survive.' She can picture him smirking at the end of the line. The thought makes her smile.

'I need a top up,' he says.

Peggy looks down at her own glass; she's let her wrist relax and it's almost horizontal. She lays a hand flat against the rug... no damp spots... she must have drunk it all, then. When had that happened?

'Me too,' she replies.

'Right, rendezvous in two— don't hang up.'

'_I won't_.'

She wanders over to the kitchen counter. The bottle of scotch is still over by the couch, but she's got a taste for something different. Wine. Yes, that'll do. She pours it into her tall tumbler without any spills or splashes, which is a small victory.

'What'd you get?'

'Red,' she hiccoughs, 'it looks like cranberry juice.'

'I'm cutting you off after this one.'

She laughs, 'You can't. _You're not here._'

There's silence from the other end, then she just hears Stan's low hum.

'What have you got?'

'Something brown and expensive. Well, expensive for me.' Now he laughs.

'You should've saved it for a special occasion.'

'I did.'

* * *

'How's the drawing going?' she takes a sip of her drink. She'd switched back to scotch an hour ago. The bottle's at her her feet, next to a box of crackers.

'Done. I'm on to something else,' he pauses, 'Jeez, it's _terrible_.'

'What's it of?'

'My empty glass.' They both laugh, and it takes a long time to settle again.

Peggy's noticed how slow and low they're both started talking. Apart from the odd trip to their kitchens or lounges (or wherever the drinks are), they've both been sitting down for hours. The effect of all the liquor's sunk down through their limbs, making them heavy, tired... loose lipped.

They can go an easy five minutes without either saying a word. It's comfortable, it's good.

Stan laughs, and it shakes Peggy from the sleep she wasn't aware she was even falling into.

'What! What?' She hears the ruffling and shuffling of drawing paper and pens.

Stan clears his throat, 'Merry Christmas, Chief.'

'Shit. Really'

'Well isn't that nice.'

'Sorry, sorry. Merry Christmas. _Really_?' She sits up straight and twists around to try and get a view of her clock.

'An hour ago,' He sighs and she hears him settle on to his couch or bed- something soft. 'I take it someone didn't get a visit from Santa then...'

'Sound's like someone else didn't either.' she snipes back.

'There's nothing I want.'

Peggy moves to sit on her armchair. 'Not even a beautiful woman to draw?'

'Now, there's an idea.' He chuckles, 'there'd be some issue getting her down the chimney.'

'You don't _have _a chimney.'

There's a pause, then a distant laugh, like Stan's moved away from the receiver. He comes back, 'No, I don't. How did I not remember that?'

'Ask that empty glass you can't draw.'

'_Don't be cruel_,' Oh god, there's that voice. 'What did you ask for? What did you want to see under your tree. I bet you have a tree. I bet it's all dressed up too.'

Peggy looks at the tree. It's pathetic, but it's there.

'Come on, what did you ask for?'

'Nothing.' That's not true. She'd asked for something. She just didn't think she deserved him... it.

_Do you think you don't deserve his love?_

'I don't believe you. You're just trying to cover up the fact there's only lumps of coal.' He doesn't say that maliciously, and even Peggy laughs a little.

'You got me.'

* * *

Preview of chapter 4: Man is about to land on the moon. Ted is close to crashing. Ted/Peggy


	4. Chapter 4 - July 18, 1969

**Summary: While man is about to land on the moon, Ted is close to crashing. **

* * *

**Friday, July 18, 1969**

He'd assumed it was just about admin. The phone in "reception" had rung a good fifteen minutes ago. His secretary, Dee, had taken the call, but when it wasn't buzzed through to him, Ted took the chance to pour himself another drink. The domed lid of his globe-shaped drinks cabinet hadn't been shut at all over the past week.

'...Mr Chaough?'

He stirs, tightening his grip on the glass before it can slip to the floor.

'Mr Chaough?'

The sun had been busy setting while he'd dozed off.

'Mr— ' Dee's speaking through the intercom, but he simply shouts back. Her desk's only on the other side of the wall, a few feet away.

'What!'

She continues to use the intercom, 'New York for you. Miss Olsen.'

The chair squeaks as he pulls himself up to sit straight. 'I've got it,' he shouts, but he hesitates in picking up the receiver.

The door to his office opens gingerly, Dee poking her head in, 'Is there a problem? The light's indicating the call hasn't— '

'It's fine. I've got it.' Ted keeps his eyes fixed on her as he brings the receiver to his ear. He summons his most professional - most sober - tone. 'Peggy?'

'Ted!' She sounds exasperated. 'Pete's been in the office— he said— and honestly, I don't know whether to believe him— I don't. I can't— '

He rests the receiver against his chest. There's a slight vibration that tells him she's still talking.

'Dee, you can go.' He checks his watch; 7:15. 'What are you even still doing here? He means for that to sound light, but it falls flat. She nods once and closes the door quietly behind her. Ted waits to hear her pack her purse and leave via the main door. It's a gamble whether Peggy will still be on the line. The handset is cold, still, and silent against his chest.

'Peggy... ' now alone again, his voice is small.

There's only silence, then a crackle somewhere along the connection.

Finally, a sigh. It rattles in his ear. 'Pete said you... '

'I turned off the engine, he's not lying.'

'Shit.'

Ted can't help but form a weak smile at that. It's unfamiliar and exhausting. 'Is that all you called to say? What's this, the first time this year?'

Another silence.

'I should be grateful,' he continues, 'at least now I know how to get your attention— '

'Ted!'

He lunges for a fresh bottle, then flops back into his chair.

'You can't say things like that,' she whispers.

The drink he's just poured suddenly loses its appeal as something bitter rises in his throat. He lets out a clipped laugh; who's he kidding— everything about him is bitter right now.

'You're in the office,' he drawls, changing the conversation.

'Yes.'

'It's late.'

'I didn't want an audience.'

'So the place is empty? Here too.'

'It is, but... '

'What?'

'It's so loud... _all the time_.'

'I thought everyone had cleared out.'

'The computer,' there's a rustling and a clicking on the line. She's adjusting the receiver, he guesses; moving it from one ear to the other. 'I've got the door closed, but I can hear it. I can always here it. Sometimes even outside of the building... '

'I heard about... Have you seen him?'

Ted regrets asking when she goes quiet once more. Michael was a good kid. Mad, but brilliant.

'Burger Chef's on Monday... ' her voice has gotten very high. He recognises the sound of someone pretending they're okay.

'_Peggy?_'

'It's fine... ' she says, drawing the last syllable out.

'I don't belie— '

'It's fine.'

It's Ted's turn to stay silent. He runs his thumb along the edge of the wing of his model plane on the desk. Testing the weight, he flips it over all too easily. It's flimsy and light, and tumbles off the desk. He stands to lean over and inspect the wreck. The fuselage is spread across the carpet. It fascinates him that something so small can break into so many pieces.

'Burger Chef,' he announces, breaking his own silence. 'It'll go great.'

'Of course it will; Don's delivering the pitch isn't he?'

Ted can't tell if she's being sarcastic. Maybe he's not the only one bitter right now. 'I've told you, you can't hold _this_ against Don. It was my— '

'What?' She sounds truly confused for a second. Then she laughs. God, that sound hurts.

'Don did the right thing— Well, he did what I asked,' he says, 'you can't be angry with him for— '

'I'm not. Ted, really— I'm not anymore.' He can tell she's being honest; it's the most calm she's been all night. 'Things are _good_ between us... Better than good. We're— '

He turns the receiver away from his ear. All right, maybe he's not ready to hear her so happy just yet.

That drink on his desk looks appealing again. Tastes good too, and just for a moment he feels full, content. When he returns to her voice, the mood has shifted again.

'... I've been in that plane with you... '

His thought process has slowed. It takes him a while to find the subtext. '_Peggy_, I would _never_... '

There's a sharp intake of breath from her end of the line, and then more crackling, but in-between, he's sure there's something like a gasp or a sigh.

'How can I _possibly_ know that for sure? _I don't know you anymore_.'

'Yes, you do.'

As always, he wants to say more. And yet, as always, he doesn't.

'_Enjoy the moon-landing, Ted_,' she says softly, something final in her voice.

He doesn't say how much it has already affected him.

'Enjoy Burger Chef.'

'It has nothing to do with me anymore, and you know it,' she sighs.

After Peggy hangs up, Ted moves to retrieve the pieces of his model plane, but on the way ends up crashing onto the couch.

His last thought before falling into a deep sleep; that maybe he can remain unconscious through the whole thing... the moon landing, the return, the...

* * *

Preview of chapter 5: Post-pitch confessions and a new favourite song. Don/Peggy.


	5. Chapter 5 - July 26, 1969

So, it's a rather long chapter (for me anyway), but it's taken such a long time to write and upload. Hopefully that balances things out. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and where the story is heading... As always, feel free to comment! I love reading the responses:)

**Summary: Post-pitch confessions and a new favourite song. Don/Peggy**

* * *

**Saturday, July 26, 1969**

They stand across from each other; awkward, tired, and silent. Peggy waits for him to speak first. She's giving him that opportunity.

The sun is setting and there's a flood of light streaming in though the skyline and across the floor, the walls, their faces. When the low light meets Ted's face, Peggy is caught off-guard, just for a moment. For that second— and for the first time since she's seen him back in New York— the shadows on his features disappear. When he notices her stare, he shifts, and that deep-set look of exhaustion returns.

The office has nearly cleared out. Only a small group— ten or twelve of them maybe— had come here after Cooper's wake. This was their quiet goodbye; a drink shared amongst old friends— now, simply familiar faces— outside the office which for a short while belonged to an old man who few could say they knew well.

Cutler passes them on his way downstairs to leave. He nods to Peggy and lands a slap on Ted's shoulder. He doesn't flinch.

Peggy listens to the fading footfalls as Cutler takes the stairs and exits via Creative. The sun's in her eyes. She blinks quickly but doesn't shield her gaze. A cloud passes over. There's that brief blindness before her eyes can adjust. Ted's looking at her waist. At her shoulders. At her Neck. Her lips. How long had he been watching her, she wonders. Had it just been this moment, or had it been since last November?

'I can't take another funeral,' he offers up eventually. 'That's _it_. No more.'

'Well, I don't think anyone _enjoys_ them... '

Peggy starts at Don's voice behind her. She'd lost track of where he'd got to— or even if he had left already. She'd just assumed that was the case. The sky's clouded and dim enough now that she can just make out the faint reflection in the window of Don standing at her left shoulder.

Ted nods. That's it, that's his goodbye for the day. He takes a few steps down, then gives one last curious glance at the pair he's leaving.

Don watches him the whole way down.

'There were a lot of big names there,' she says, turning to face Don, 'from a lot of big agencies.'

'They're sharks looking for an in with a client— any client.' he says coldly. Don looks out at the view, his face softening. 'It's so quiet.'

Peggy passes him to collapse into the couch opposite Cooper's office. 'You know why? We're finally far enough away from that computer. How about we move Creative up here? Set Harry and Jim up next to the damn thing— it's _their_ baby. We could rearrange the office before Monday.'

'I'm sure you could.' Don crosses into Roger's office, but reemerges immediately, already making a beeline for Pete's. 'This is why everyone left,' he calls out. 'Where'd all the liquor go?'

Peggy giggles, then has to work hard to suppress a hiccough. 'I saw Harry take a bottle out under his jacket. Try Jim's middle drawer.' She rests her head to one side against the back of the couch, watching as Don strides past and out of view. There's the sound of the drawer sliding along its runners, a frantic rustling, a silence, then a sharp slam. Don returns holding a quarter bottle of something brown and— knowing Cutler's taste— expensive. Don carries it over like a trophy, holding it up high.

'How did _you_ know about _that?_' he asks, smirking as he unscrews the cap.

'Ted.' That's the short answer.

Back at CGC, Ted had once complained about Jim traveling around the office, filling up on the quality stuff from his colleague's carts, but that he kept a bottle stashed away in his desk for emergencies which he refused to share with anyone.

Her response gets raised eyebrows from Don, but that's all.

Sometimes Peggy wants him to push— to ask more, or at least ask _something_. He knows so many half-truths about her, so many incomplete stories and histories.

Without asking, he tops up her near-empty glass. It'll make for an interesting blend. After filling his own glass, that bottle too is empty.

'To Bert,' he says with a sigh.

Peggy meets his glass with hers. She's lost track of how many times that toast has been made this past week. There's a fog in her head, and she finds herself speaking without filtering first— 'Everyone talks about him like he was this... this endearing old man, some sort of doddering, loveable _fool_... but I don't know if that's true. He would frighten me. Easily.' She frowns, and crosses an arm protectively around her waist, pretty sure she's just said the wrong thing to the right person.

Don surprises her, letting out a short laugh. 'You're not wrong,' he says, 'he tried to blackmail me into signing a contract with Sterling Cooper.'

'But you _did_ sign.'

'I did. It worked.' Don downs half his drink in one go.

'Oh.' She's smart enough to know not to bother asking questions. If there _were _to be any answer, it would be too vague, too cryptic, to be of any real value.

He finishes his drink. 'Don't you want to ask what it was he had? Aren't you _burning_ to know.' He's got that look set on his face. It's a challenge.

Still, she doesn't rise to the provocation. 'Right. Like you wouldn't resent me if I tried.' She does smile though, just to let him know that it's not a dig at him, more of a learned assumption. Peggy smiles into her glass, right until it meets her lips. It takes a while. She's had enough to drink that every movement feels slow and heavy. She likes it.

There's a silence as she takes a long sip. Don's waiting to look her straight in the eyes when she's done. He's shuffled forward in his seat.

'I never resent anything you do.' He says that firmly. Softly.

A dozen contradictions to his statement flash through her mind. 'Now I know _that's_ not true.' She keeps the eye contact, gives a smile that says more in her eyes than with her mouth. Don mirrors the look.

'All right,' he says quietly. He goes to say something more, his lips nearly parting, his jaw moving, but whatever it is gets swallowed back down and replaced with a slight nod.

Peggy breaks the connection first, leaning back in the seat. She gives in to the urge to kick off her heels and tuck her legs up under her. She could fall asleep so easily now. It's been a long, long week.

'This needs to be remedied,' she hears him say. He's looking at the bottom of his empty glass.

* * *

Don makes the trip downstairs to find a fresh bottle. He goes to Ted's office rather than Lou's— which reminds him, he should know soon enough whether he'll be getting his old office back. Anyway, as resolved as he's feeling with Ted Chaough right now, he wants to take something that belongs to him. He'll start with his liquor.

He's about to take his first step back up to Peggy when he falters; a wave of unsteadiness travelling through his body.

'Peggy!' he calls. Could she have fallen asleep already? She was looking pretty worn out. '_Peggy!_'

'_What?_' She sounds alert enough.

'I can't face these stairs again.'

There's a pause. '_And... _'

'Come down here.'

There's a shuffling sound above him to indicate Peggy's on her way. Don has an idea to mask the hum of the computer. He crosses the floor to Lou's office and turns the radio on and the volume up. The seven o'clock news bulletin's just starting.

Back at the foot of the staircase, he can hear the radio clearly in the empty office. He always forgets how eerie the place can be without the tapping of typewriters, the click-clack of secretaries heels, or the insistent ringing of telephones. All that noise is so soothing to him. He'd go crazy too if he'd been cooped up in the California office.

Peggy's making her way slowly down the stairs, distracted by the view through the window. Her expression interests him; it's something between a frown and a smile. There's a battle going on inside that head. It actually bothers him that he can only guess what it might be about. Ted. McCann. Bert. The moon. Berger Chef— No, that one's been resolved. It could be the same thing that Don's been considering ever since the deal with McCann was confirmed— What happens now that there are so many high-end Creatives back in the New York office? McCann wanted him specifically, he knows that. So what, there's three Heads of Creative now? No one's made it clear yet what happens to Lou. His contract should be under review now that they've been bought. And Ted doesn't want the stress anymore. Would he resort to Copy Chief? What happens to Peggy, would she and Ted share the title? The idea of them sharing anything twists the knot in his gut. There's something there, a thought he can't quite identify, let alone turn into action.

On the radio, the news has finished, and a song he doesn't recognise starts playing.

Don holds a hand out to help Peggy down the last few steps. She doesn't notice until she bumps into it, taking hold of it to steady herself. They stay like that for a moment. Peggy's grip on him relaxes, but she doesn't take her hand away from his.

'Everything keeps changing, but nothing's changed,' she says quietly, looking back out the window.

Don waits for more, but she doesn't offer it. When he thinks about it later, he'll realise there didn't need to be any clarification. Everything keeps changing, but nothing's _changed_. It's complete, and it's true.

'Come on,' he says, giving her a gentle tug. She follows his lead and gets to the bottom of the staircase. They sit on the last step. Don offers her the bottle from Ted's office, but she shakes her head. She's smoothing out the skirt of her dress. He can't remember another time he's seen her wearing black. There's a vague memory of seeing her after Frank Gleason's funeral, but it's just that— vague. That whole weekend is a fog.

'I'm getting a divorce. Again.' He's not sure why he's saying that out loud, or to Peggy, but it feels good.

Peggy stops what she's doing to look at him. 'What? But Megan— ' She interrupts herself, replacing words with a sympathetic tilt of her head.

Don evaluates her state; exhausted, but not drunk. Good. It'll be nice to have a conversation both of them will remember.

'It was... ' he almost says _mutual_, 'a long time coming.' Don puts the bottle aside, bringing both his hands together in his lap. 'And... I think... a lot of people saw that. Maybe even before I did.'

Peggy offers a noncommittal hum... Don laughs.

'I'll count you as one of them.'

'No, no— it's just... ' she says quickly, 'I don't know. What _would_ I know?'

They stay in their comfortable silence until Peggy stands up abruptly, leaning over the stair rail, listening to something coming from Lou's office.

'I haven't heard this in a while,' she says.

The melody is quiet, but familiar.

_...I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do..._

'Everything's been about the moon lately,' she adds.

_...each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this..._

'Come on,' he says, standing and extending a hand out to her again.

Peggy grins. 'What, This is a thing we do now?'

He waits for her, and eventually she takes his hand, following him to the floorspace in front of the conference room.

_...But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and..._

Peggy laughs when Don pulls her towards him and spins her. They settle into the same rhythm as last time, Peggy resting her head against his chest. He forgets how much shorter she is.

_...I've loved, I've laughed and cried. I've had my fill, my share of losing..._

'I bet you won't miss that small office. Looking forward to getting your old one back?' Her voice is muffled against his suit.

'_Yes_.' He's tired of sitting in a dead man's chair.

Peggy giggles. The vibrations of her laughter resonate through him.

'I didn't think it would fit in there,' she drawls.

He leans back a little to look at her, 'What?'

'Your ego.' She looks up at him, smirking.

'Funny.' He spins her out again, catching her off guard.

_...For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught..._

Settled again, they turn slowly around on the spot. Somehow, the thought of Bert's message is triggered. It plays quietly in his mind. He's aware that his grip on Peggy has tightened, but she seems nonplussed. The best thing about this moment? It's not costing him a thing.

He feels Peggy shift; not away, just to get more comfortable.

'We're dancing to the news,' she says.

He focuses on sound coming from the radio. 'Technically, we're just standing to the news.' It's true.

They remain as they are though, perhaps too tired to stand on their own unsupported.

Don takes in a deep breath, letting it out as a long sigh. 'I'm getting another divorce,' he says again. He's not sure why he's bringing it up once more. Probably in the hope he gets the response he wants... not that he's certain what it would look or sound like.

Peggy shifts again, resting her hand just about over where his heart would be. He reaches to touch a wave in her hair, but she anticipates his move and steps back. His hand falls back to his side. Without her close proximity, he feels a cool chill.

'What happened to your "rules"?' she says, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks confused, almost shaking with... what, rage? She doesn't look angry though. Just... perplexed.

'People do things,' he says simply.

'_People do things_? That's all you can say?' And now she sounds resigned— sad, almost. She's going through the emotional spectrum pretty quickly.

Don shifts on the spot, composing himself, pushing his fists into his pockets. It's an attempt to appear cool, calm, and collected.

'I'll see you...' Peggy says slowly, bemused.

Don raises his eyebrows, 'Monday?'

'Yes, _Monday_, when else— ' she's shaking her head, but there's a smile creeping onto her features. Don watches the corners of her mouth twitch.

'All right,' he croons, 'Good-night Peggy.'

'Good-night.'

But neither take a step. It's another stand-off for who will make the first move.

* * *

Preview of chapter 6: Peggy receives more questions than answers. Peggy/Stan.


	6. Chapter 6 - July 27, 1969

Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter... things kept getting in the way. Good news is I have the rest of the story planned (but am open to suggestions and spontaneous changes-of-mind) and can say there will be 10 chapters in total, meaning we're now over halfway through. As always, please comment! I love reading the responses!

**Summary: Peggy receives more questions than answers. Peggy/Stan **

* * *

**Sunday, July 27, 1969**

The cushion falls from her lap to the floor as she stirs. Peggy can't remember why she'd fallen asleep on the couch rather than on her bed, furthermore, what had caused her to wake so abruptly. Too slowly, her senses adjust to hear her phone ringing. It's at her feet as she pulls herself up into a sitting position. Peggy simply stares at the phone as it gives a final ring. Her eyelids feel heavy, as does the rest of her body. So that's why she's on the couch then, rather than the bed— because it was closer to the front door when she'd eventually returned from Cooper's informal wake at the office.

The shrill ring of her phone cuts in again.

1:20am. It's too late for this, but out of an exhausted curiosity, Peggy reaches for the receiver.

'Jesus, Peg, what happened?'

'_Stan?_'

'You said you were getting coffee. I heard you come back, and you hung up on me.'

'What? Stan, it's late—'

'Really. I hadn't noticed.'

'I'm too tired for whatever this is—'

'Yeah, well, you woke me up first, got me all... _intrigued_, and then, well, worried.'

'What? Please, this can wait for tomorrow—'

'No. I'm serious Chief, you've got me worried.'

'_What about your baby?'_

Stan laughs.

'Why are you laughing? You finished with her, didn't you!'

'No, no. It's just—you already asked me that.'

'When?'

'When you called... '

'_When?_'

'Seriously? I don't know, an hour ago? Hour and a half?'

The full cup of coffee on her side table is still warm to her touch.

'What did I say?' she says it quickly, hearing the panic in her own voice.

'Ah... ' Stan drawls, 'leverage.'

'Don't screw with me, I'm not in the mood—'

'All right, all right.'

'So what did I say?'

'I don't really know. Honest.'

'So you call me up in the middle of the night—forgetting for a second that yes, I called you first—to ask me about something neither of us remember me saying. Great. Perfect.'

'Hey, _I_ remember. Cool it. It was just a little... nonsensical.'

Peggy doesn't know what to say to that.

Stan's tone slips into something sympathetic, lowering and slowing down, 'I'm guessing you saw Ted after the wake? You mentioned the office... Something about... what was it, rules or codes or standards. That was it, double standards.'

The office?

_Don._

_Shit._

Stan's still talking, 'It's just a matter of setting into a new routine. It'll be hard, but—'

'Not Ted. It wasn't—' Peggy cuts herself off again. It's unfamiliar territory. There's just some things they don't talk about. They'll discus the good things about their love lives, the flirting, the tension, the nights and the mornings after, but never this. Never the confusion or the rejection. Never the hurt. This, she'd classify as confusion. Or better yet, bewilderment.

Stan groans, exasperated, 'Jesus, don't get all vague again.'

'Are you really awake?'

'_Yes_.'

'Have you seen Michael again?'

'What? Yes— Peg, I know this has nothing to do with Ginsberg.'

'You've seen him? Recently?'

'_Yes_.'

'How is he?'

'I want to say he's fine, but... he's calmer.'

'Is he talking?' Peggy plays idly with a scrap of paper on her table, furling the corner between two fingers.

'You kidding? He never shuts up.'

Peggy lets out a sigh of relief. 'Good. _Good_.' Then, almost immediately, a rush of panic follows. 'What does he talk about?'

'Ugh, everything. Anything.'

'Has he asked about me?'

She hears only the rustle of the phone being adjusted at the other end of the line.

'Stan?'

'... He talks about you. But he talks about everyone, even Bob.'

She's trying to interpret Stan's long pause. The paper corner she'd been playing with is so worn now that it breaks away in her fingers. Peggy flicks it away across the room.

'Peggy?'

'Hmm?'

'What's this about? Really?'

'He said he felt things... for me...' Peggy's fairly sure she's still referring to Michael and not... She wants for Stan to laugh, but he doesn't.

'What did you say?' He sounds so serious.

'That working with people, seeing them every day, you can get confused. It's not love.

Stan hums in contemplation.

'It's true,' she says.

'It can be complicated,' he says slowly, drawing out each syllable.

'_Don't._'

Now he laughs, '_What?_'

'That would be all I need.'

'Poor Peggy, too many men in love with her,' he croons sarcastically.

'They don't _love_ me,' she spits, exasperated. 'Ted— Ted loved the idea of me, but couldn't follow through. You, well, I'm familiar and I'm convenient— '

'Ouch,' he says, laughing.

'— Michael's deranged— '

'You don't mean that,' she hears him say in the background.

'— and Don— ' this time she interrupts herself, and changes tact, 'It's late, okay, sorry I called, this can wait— This, _this _isn't even a thing— ' She's hoping the rush of babbling will distract Stan from really listening to what she's saying, and what she's _not_ said. Hopefully he's tired. Hopefully he's drunk, or at least hungover. Maybe he's high— would that be too much to hope for?

'Don _what_?'

Unfortunately, he's completely in his right mind.

'That's really great news that Michael's perked up— ' she's trying her best to sound upbeat and unperturbed.

'_Peggy... _'

'I don't know, I don't _know_, all right.'

There's a silence between them. It could have been awkward, but Peggy welcomes the reprieve.

'He's getting divorced,' she says eventually.

'_Again?_'

Peggy can't help but laugh a little.

'What?'

'He said that too.'

Peggy hears the flick of Stan's lighter and the sizzle of cigarette paper igniting.

'Is this another "Ted" scenario?' He's lowered his voice to that deep gravelly tone, 'Swearing he'll do one thing then bailing out?'

'What? No— I'm not a factor in this. They've been in trouble for a while. You really don't notice these things at all, do you?'

'What'd he say?'

'Nothing.' How is she supposed to explain that she just knew, just _understood_ what could have happened if she'd stayed in that office any longer... If she'd stayed in that moment.

'Peg, don't take this the wrong way— I'm not tryin' to be cruel, but are you _sure_— is there a chance maybe... you could of... ' He leaves the question open for her to finish herself. Had she misread the scenario?

'There was a moment,' Jesus, that sounds so childish when she says it aloud.

'Shit! He kissed you!'

'What? No. _No._' The longer this conversation goes on, the more they sound like a pair of teenage girls. _Reckon you're going steady now?_

'_Did you want him to?_' Stan's voice is practically dripping.

'Don't use that voice on me Stan.'

There's a rumbling laugh through the phone line.

'Come on... ' he drawls, '_Peggy?_'

'No. I don't know. No.' But the words sound clunky and lack conviction.

Don was just stumbling around for whatever— whoever— was close at hand.

'I don't want to just be convenient,' she says. She wants to be _wanted_. Ted "needed" her, Duck "needed" her, Pete "needed" her, Stan needed "this" that night in the office. She was tired of being a supplement to these men. Admiration, authority, alcohol, grief. That's what Peggy filled the void of. Don needed her yesterday too. If he couldn't keep Megan by his side, he needed to prove to himself that he could still be desired.

She considers Stan's question again, 'No.'

But how many women had said no to Don Draper? How many would, given the chance?

Then again, Peggy wasn't known for being conventional.

'Sure?'

* * *

Preview of chapter 7: There's a conversation that has to happen eventually. Don/Ted/Peggy


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